COMFORT FOODS // Gulyás – Liam Skillen

I look at a photo of my Hungarian grandfather and his compatriots in Carr Bank Park, posing by the flowerbeds on Woodhouse Road, and know it is possible to belong to more than a single place. 

ONE POEM – Erin Vance

Just as Hemlock
digs its graves in the
carrot family plot

ONE POEM – Alex Stolis

because there’s no way he would ever find it,
being interested only in dinner/work/breakfast
/work/sex on demand/sleep/work.

COMFORT FOODS // Overheard at Terasa Obor – Ana Prundaru

the problem with mici is
they’re all so good
that they don’t even ask you
what you’re ordering

ONE POEM – Elizabeth Seven

So next time you feel so anxious that you can hardly unlock the door,
remember that the world holds your feet

TWO POEMS – KG Newman

First day of the World Series,
autumn hanging on, each tree
seeing who can keep from
being a skeleton the longest

COMFORT FOODS // Bombay Toast – Samarth Agarwal

I see you standing there – starch white lungi draped
7AM freshly shaved – wooden spoon in hand
Commanding your caramelising populace.

ONE POEM – Emilie Delcourt

one bright red strawberry on the strawberry plant

mist still low, tangled in the branches of olive trees

the way the pomegranates hang low
with the burden of their own weight

ESSAY | Trying To See – Erin Ruble

On a sunny September day in the early 1990s, a German couple taking a shortcut through the rock spires on the Austrian-Italian border spotted the head and back of a man jutting from a patch of half-melted ice. The couple, thinking they’d stumbled across the corpse of a mountaineer, told the owner of the inn they were staying at. He, in turn, contacted the authorities, who sent a forensic investigator.

COMFORT FOODS // Ends and Pieces – Lisa Ochoa

You’ve probably never noticed them. Their red and white box usually sits well below their thick-cut, smoked, and maple-flavored cousins in their clear ‘look at me!’ packaging. Or, sometimes, Ends and Pieces aren’t displayed at all, and you have to ask the butcher for them. Because mind you, they are the ends and pieces, the leftovers, the scraps. Who would want them?

My mom, that’s who.

FICTION | Light of The World – Sue Beardon

How she longs for the asteroid to come, to show them how little they controlled anything.

Book Review: The Woman Dies by Aoko Matsuda, translated by Polly Barton – Arbnora Selmani

Reuniting with translator Polly Barton, Matsuda revisits similar themes in this new collection; across fifty-two stories, she tackles the pervasive misogyny faced by women in contemporary Japan and beyond. 

FICTION | The Grammar of Forgetting – Jeffrey-Michael Kane

Desire could drain a reservoir. Fear could empty a playground. And someone like her would be left to label the files.

ONE POEM – Stephanie Russell

The past peels me off like red pared down to
parent rock (think barn, cadaver, three-wheeled
wagon upended in the bee garden).

ONE POEM – Erin Jamieson

My hand slips—crushed pepper
fills the pot, the water is boiling
not simmering as you said, you said
I needed to be careful, but look now

Book Review: House of Day, House of Night by Olga Tokarczuk, translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones – Arbnora Selmani

“We are prompted to savour each word, carefully probing between our teeth to discover new morsels of meaning.”

ONE POEM – Brian Alkire

That albino slug
looks like mobile marzipan,
bending its neck for a nap
in the stitchwort
tufted beside the road.

ONE POEM – Paul Bavister

You slid the nit comb through my hair
then rinsed and laughed about how
you loved hunting them down

ONE POEM – Harriet Sandilands 

legs floating, brush of seaweed 
bulging water moves us 
up and down 
the shore seems very far away 

ESSAY | Initiation – Kate Stukenborg

I wanted to be a part of their club, their conversations, their laughter. Eating, I decided, was my way in.

FLASH FICTION | Blue Pieces of Sky – Mikki Aronoff

Stevie busies himself trying to match two blue pieces of sky. You watch him working the corners and the glands in your throat swell.

ONE POEM – Miriam Ashford

If you walk along a path
between forest and shore
between grains eroded by the sea
they were mountains once

INTERVIEW | Artist Mimi Kunz

I found that writing and art keep me sane, they’re like a room of my own in a time when I’m rarely alone.

TWO POEMS – Stephanie Powell

Am I livestock or the boning knife?
Amongst the timid lambs, half-dreaming

FICTION | Rooms: A Love Letter – Annemarie McCarthy

Inside the atoms of the cavity block extension live the remnants of a thousand John Players.

FICTION | Bruises – Keenan Lew

They say a lot of the work of being poly is scheduling. When I say ‘they’ I mean smug influencers with poorly produced podcasts, and when I say ‘being poly’ I hate myself.

ONE POEM – Marianne Habeshaw

My family observes the emu cage. Beaks so vengeful, I realise we’re taking the piss.

ONE POEM – C.W.Bryan

I first saw her walking,
the folds of her ink blue dress
turning the earth;

POETRY IN TRANSLATION – Bartosz Konstrat, tr. Dawid Mobolaji

But from time to time it does exist. Something like a stray lash under the eyelid
trying to catch its last breath.

TWO POEMS – Cara L. McKee

at least the colour I’m told is
robin’s egg blue, like
boy-baby blankets, like
deep breaths of sunshine.

ONE POEM – Susan G. Byron

It’s these questions I have. (An astral whodunnit: a whydreamit).

ONE POEM – Atma Frans

They’re small animals
wriggling to get out

Just let us touch the crust, they say
feel it crackle

ONE POEM – Satya Bosman

I know it’s over when I picture the train carriage
it’s an old-fashioned carriage with burgundy velvet seats
a little room in my memory.

ONE POEM – Finlay Worallo

You are sun-skinned, but my half
of the planet is tumbling into the dark.

DIGITAL ART – IJWBAA

Family is my way of honouring the Filipino spirit, where the bond of unity, the guidance of elders, and the hope carried by the younger generation come together to form a love that is simple, yet profound—one that transcends individuality and connects us all.

ONE POEM – J.M.Summers

It is an old superstition.
The mirror, and the room
dark behind it but for the
flickering of a few fading
candles.

COMFORT FOODS // Cooke’s Pie & Mash Shop – Jonella Vidal

My memories can be quantified in cups of tea,
and meat pies filled perfectly, slumped against
a mountain of mash

ONE POEM – Jonny Rodgers

Like thirst – a need to quench, slake, state:
first hearse, first coffin and pallbearing.

TWO POEMS – Vanessa Napolitano

I become great at darts, a phenomenon
on dart circuits, earning enough from darts
to pay for lobster rolls

TWO POEMS – Hana Wilde

maybe they look down
at their bodies as they left them

in neat rows, heads of wheat
crackling green and gold

FICTION | Summer Buzz 1960 – Anne Irwin

She arms herself with the metal pipe of the Electrolux
with the precision of a marksman

ONE POEM – Steven Brisendine

(coffee, pastry,
food-words,
unfettered time)

TWO POEMS – Elliot Ruff

Words words words black as a cat. 
I just saw you in the periphery of 
Manet’s Olympia — or maybe Cézanne’s

COMFORT FOODS // Ode to the Palta – Ulrike Durán Bravo

…across the bitter world, a sweet gift from Pachamama
like my father who taught me to feel
and press its skin: a map of lost worlds

ESSAY | A Citizen Of The World – Isaac Aju

There was something very claustrophobic about being in Nigeria. Nigeria gagged its people. Nigeria strangled people’s voices. People were often afraid to speak out. People were always afraid for no reason, and so being in Nigeria was the last thing you wanted to do. You wanted to move out of Nigeria. If that would not be possible, then you wanted to connect with people who were not Nigerians. You wanted to know more about the world. You wanted to move into the real world. You wanted your mindset to morph from Nigeria to The World.